TV Writer & Filmmaker | Crafting Chicano Myths through Psychological Truth | From CBS’s Matlock & S.W.A.T. to Award-Winning Cinema
For David Aguilar, the most profound stories aren’t found in the cold facts of a police report or the dry history books of a Gold Rush town; they are found in the “psychological truth” that lies beneath. It is a philosophy he inherited from his mentor, the legendary filmmaker Robert M. Young, and one he has spent a lifetime refining. From the halls of an East Los Angeles high school to the surveillance vans of a private investigator, and finally to the writers’ rooms of major network television, Aguilar’s journey has been defined by a singular pursuit: the reclamation of the Chicano narrative.
The Shadows of “Hangtown”
The roots of David Aguilar’s creative vision were planted in the complex soil of Placerville, California—a town famously known as “Hangtown” for its vigilante history. Moving there at age four, Aguilar was one of the few students of color in a predominantly white landscape during the 1980s. The isolation of those years created a quiet, internal friction. He faced a brand of systemic and social pressure that he, like many children in his position, initially internalized as an inferiority complex.
“The leadership lesson from my youth that has stuck with me over the years is that the first step to moving forward in life and embarking on greater achievements, most of the time starts with unlearning a belief system that hasn’t served you,” Aguilar reflects.
This early necessity to deconstruct his surroundings became the cornerstone of his leadership style. It wasn’t enough to simply succeed in the industry; he had to redefine the parameters of what success looked like for a Chicano artist. His formal education at UCLA Film School provided the technical vocabulary for this deconstruction. As the Co-Chair of the Chicano/Latino Film Festival and a columnist for the Daily Bruin, Aguilar began to find his voice. His early work, including the experimental collage CAN YOU SEE THE BULL?, traveled to Havana and the Smithsonian, signaling the arrival of a creator who refused to play by traditional, linear rules.
Noir, Resistance, and the Writer’s Room
Before Aguilar was a staple in Hollywood, his life read like a high-stakes screenplay. He spent his days teaching at an East LA high school, fostering the next generation of voices, while his nights were spent moonlighting as a private investigator. This duality—the educator and the observer of the underworld—honed his ability to spot the “psychological truth” in every character. It gave him a visceral understanding of stakes, secrets, and the human condition that no textbook could provide.
His trajectory shifted toward the global stage when he traveled to Chiapas, Mexico, to teach filmmaking to the Zapatista guerrilla army. This wasn’t just a trip; it was a masterclass in art as resistance. It reinforced his belief that film is a tool for liberation—a concept he brought back to the United States and applied to every script he touched.
This grit and global perspective eventually led him to the prestigious Paramount Writers Mentoring Program, catapulting him into the upper echelons of network television. Aguilar’s pen has since shaped high-stakes narratives for CBS’s S.W.A.T., the legal drama Matlock, and the History Channel’s FDR. Whether he was exploring the tactical pressures of elite law enforcement or the historical weight of a presidency, Aguilar brought a signature depth to the page—always looking for the moment that defines a character’s soul.
Building a Modern Chicano Mythos
Today, Aguilar is transitioning from the collaborative world of TV to the singular vision of feature filmmaking. His short film, Hangtown, serves as both a homecoming and a reckoning. The story of a 12-year-old Latino boy who finds a father figure in a fleeing immigrant—set against the backdrop of his own childhood home—has become a festival phenomenon. Winning the Visionary Spirit Award and Outstanding Cine Latino Long Form at the Sacramento International Film Festival, the project has proven that there is a deep, underserved hunger for these stories.
“This festival has been a long time champion of Chicano and Indigenous voices, leading the way with joyful resistance, building an irresistible movement,” Aguilar shared regarding his work’s inclusion in the festival circuit. To him, filmmaking is an act of joyful resistance—a way to push back against erasure by creating images that are impossible to ignore.
His current work continues this trend of reclaiming history. By dramatizing the 1967 New Mexico Courthouse Raid in his screenplay Trespassers, Aguilar is reaching back into the past to pull forward the heroes and rebels who have been sidelined for too long. He is no longer just writing scripts; he is building a modern mythos.
The Power of the Shared Narrative
As Aguilar prepares to shoot the feature version of Hangtown on location in Placerville, he remains focused on the long game. He views his career not as a ladder of credits, but as a bridge for those coming after him. His advice to the next generation of creators is born from the resilience of a man who has knocked on a thousand doors:
“Find a way to be okay with rejection… the more doors you knock on, the right one will eventually open. Always take rejection as an opportunity to grow and fail upward.“
For David Aguilar, the ultimate goal is the collective empowerment of his community. He believes that true power comes from a culture’s ability to see its own myths reflected on the screen. By embracing the psychological truths of his past and the cinematic possibilities of the future, he is ensuring that the Chicano story is no longer a footnote, but a feature.
Editorial Note
David Aguilar’s journey is a testament to the power of “unlearning” the limitations placed upon us. His transition from the classroom and the detective’s van to the director’s chair serves as a blueprint for anyone looking to turn their unique lived experience into a professional legacy. As he embarks on his first feature film, we are reminded that the most important stories are often the ones we were told not to tell.
